Quickness

False life, a foil and no more,

Wilt thou be gone?

Thou foul deception of all

That would not have the true come on.

Thou art a moon-like toil, a

Self-posing state,

A dark contest of waves and wind,

A mere tempestuous debate.

Life is a fixed, discerning light,

A knowing joy;

No chance or fit, but ever

And calm and full, yet doth not cloy.'Tis such a blissful thing that

Doth

And shine and smile and hath the

To please without eternity.

Thou art a toilsome mole, or less;

A moving mist;

But life is what none can express:

A quickness which my God hath kissed.